


Memories

by amuk



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Amnesia, Community: 31_days, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Introspection, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't bother her. Really. She spends her days bickering with Gil and bossing Oz. Spends her nights sleeping and eating meat. That's all there is</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 6. Men make their own history (Karl Marx)

It doesn’t bother her. Of this one fact she is sure. It doesn’t, not at all, not in the slightest.

 

She spends her days eating meat and following Oz and bickering with Gil. Spends her nights in a deep dark sleep where there is nothing—no dreams or memories or light.

 

That is all there is to it.

 

-x-

 

This is something secret, something she doesn’t admit to the others, something she will never speak about.

 

It only happens on the darkest of nights, when the clouds hide the stars and the moon hasn’t risen. Oz is snoring lightly (he has this pattern, of increasing sound before stopping all at once and starting once more). Gil isn’t sleeping, she knows that much. He’s lying there, eyes closed and hat tilted, just waiting for anything to come barging in.

 

It’s almost silent, then. The clock is ticking lightly—counting down his days, her memories, his worries—and she can hear the beating of her heart. The breathing of her lungs. The rustles of her skirt. She shifts twice, trying to find a more comfortable position.

 

She doesn’t want to close her eyes. The moment she does, everything becomes too clear, a shift in focus until the edges are as sharp as nails.

 

Alice feels hollow then, a void of nothing and no one, of stubborn bravado and forgotten dreams. It stares at her, through the eyes of that short bunny, the eyes of a god calling back his creation.

 

She is not worth it, she knows. Not worth anything. Only worth the tattoo on his chest and the swings of her scythe. Even now, Oz is somehow gaining control of the later and the former is destroying him.

 

He shifts slightly, his snoring cut off as he dozes between levels. He curls up a little more, leaning against her some, and she fights the urge to look away.

 

This is the part she really doesn’t like about it.

 

There is something vaguely comforting about his presence. It calms her when she’s on a rampage, when her mind is swirling with useless thoughts. Calms and centers her until her confidence rises once more and her mind can plan her next move.

 

He might be able to replace her easily but she can’t say the same about him.


End file.
